Yesterday, my wife left for Houston for a business trip. She typically takes a cab so that I don't have to make the 30-mile trek to Orlando Airport and back. This Sunday, however, I was forced to was lucky enough to be her chauffeur spend time with her as I drove her there.

The trip was uneventful, save for a few moron drivers who don't understand that green means go and that if the speed limit is 45, that really means 60. And, of course, 10 minutes into the drive, the gas light came on. Typically, this means that I have about 30-35 miles left before the car runs out of gas. Since it was 102 degrees out and I had the air conditioner on full blast, this cut it short by a few miles, but even so, with about 20 miles left to the airport, this gave me plenty of time to get gas after dropping Amy off.

Yes, I know what you're all thinking. Trust me, it doesn't get any better and I don't get any smarter.

As I was leaving the airport, my stomach let out a grumble that I'm sure was felt within a three-mile radius. I realized that I hadn't eaten in almost two hours! That may not seem like a long time, but when you're the size of a large gorilla, you need to eat consistently throughout the day just to avoid falling asleep from exhaustion. A constant supply of candy, sugar, heroin, meat, and mayonnaise is essential to maintain any gorilla's health.

At one of the first traffic lights leaving the airport I saw a Mobil on my right. We only use Mobil because I have one of those nifty Speed Passes and I like to wave my hand like a Jedi and say "This is the fuel I'm looking for" and watch the light glow and the gas pump. As I was about to pull in so that I could fill up, I saw a Checker's on the left of the road.

"Gas or food? Gas or food? Food or gas? Food or gas?" My mind raced. Logically, it made more sense to get gas first. With my mind made up, I started again to pull into the gas station when my stomach reached up my throat, strangled my mind, and forced us all to turn left across six lanes of traffic into the Checker's drive-through lane.

In order to make sure that I had enough gas to get food and then coast to the gas station on fumes, I drove like the Masshole I am up to the speaker.

The minimum-wage slave was surprisingly astute and took my order for two Buford Sourdough sandwiches (ketchup and mayo only), two 1/4 Champ Burgers (ketchup and mayo only), a large order of fries, a large Diet Coke, and a large strawberry milkshake without any errors. She was intelligent, well-spoken, and gave me hope at the prospect of a speedy order process. This was a good thing, because to my eyes, the needle on the gas gauge was so low that it seemed to be trying to circle back around.

I pulled around the corner and stopped short behind a large white van that was waiting at the window. By my count, there were more than six and likely as many as 43 people in the van.

As I watched, the person on the passenger side in the farthest rear seat, whom I shall call Frobert, passed what looked like money up to the front. The driver passed this to the employee, who disappeared, and emerged about a minute later with a bag of delicious tastiness and a beverage that she handed to the driver, who in turn sent it back to Frobert.

"Okay, van," I muttered. "Frobert got his food. Time to go."

Nope.

The person next to Frobert, whom I shall call Schnozzilla, passed his money up to the driver. Three minutes later, Schnozzilla got his food. This continued with Icky Fingers and Ears of Doom, who both seemed to mock me by passing their money to the front as slowly as humanly fucking possible!

By this time, I was getting very nervous. The needle was tapping the bottom and the big "E" was glowering at me. As soon as I saw that Shovel Face was also getting food, I made the hardest decision that I've ever made in my entire life. I was going to have to abandon food.

With tears cascading down my sunken cheeks (from the hunger, remember?), I put the car in reverse. And, almost as if on cue, four goddamn motherfucking shitlicking cars simultaneously pulled into the drive-through lane behind me.

"Oh my God," I said. "I'm going to die in the Checker's drive-through. My car is going to run out of gas, it will shut off, and I will roast in the 102 degree weather. Fast food is going to kill me, but not in the way that I want it to!"

The next step seemed obvious. To keep the gas going as long as possible, I turned off the AC and put all the windows down. Almost instantly, I felt like I was being microwaved. The heat was a blanket of death pressing down on my mouth and nose, and I knew I only had minutes to live. Sweat coated me, blurring my vision as I watched helplessly while Fuckstick, Samwise Gamgee, Popeye, and Godzilla Cock all passed money to the Checker's employee.

Using some napkins I found in the glove compartment, I wiped my eyes, and when my vision cleared, the van was gone, as if it had never been there at all. Almost in disbelief, I pulled forward to the window with my credit card hanging out the window. The cashier took it and returned a second later with my receipt, my card, and my large Diet Coke. Which I promptly poured over my head.

Over the sizzle of the frying Diet Coke, I heard her ask me if I was okay. "Do I look okay? I'm melting. I think my crotch just caught fire. There's a puddle at my feet that is 90% sweat and 10% urine because my penis has just melted off. I'm not fucking okay!" I said gently.

With a glare, she handed me the rest of my food, and I tore off at the speed of sound. I drove over a curb, through a grass median, and crossed six lanes of traffic illegally with my hand on the horn and my finger poking straight up at the world.

The car coughed as I pulled up to the pump. I hopped out, deliriously waved my hand at the pump. Nothing happened. I reached into the car and tried waving my hand with the keys in them this time. Success!

The car drank greedily, and I kept the air conditioning on high the whole way home. And in the end, those were the best fucking burgers I've ever tasted.

Lesson learned? Make Amy take a cab next time.